The Golden Rule
by FifteenthVector
Summary: Jim jumps every alien he comes across because he's trying to keep Pike's main rule - no sleeping with the crew. But they haven't had outside contact in three weeks, and he gets slightly...paranoid. Straight-up crack, K/S.
1. Un

**A/N: I appropriated a Superman quote, but I kind of love it. **

**If that violates everything you believe in and you want to slap me in the face…just skip the first sentence. Not that hard, guys.**

* * *

**The Golden Rule**

* * *

"With great power comes not only great responsibility but also a great amount of legislature to learn." Pike announced to Jim over his shoulder as they strode down the gently curving hallway. "You're going to have to commit most of the laws to memory and vaguely understand the rest of them. That's what you would be studying in upper Command classes, but you're going to have to play catch-up for the first year or two." Pike walked into his office and snagged two glasses filled with murky liquid from the replicator, which was humming softly and glowing an ominous shade of blue.

"Sorry about this." Pike said, handing Jim a steaming cup of tea and sitting behind his desk. "Replicators been on the fritz and has decided to only spit out Vulcan tea."

Jim took a scalding mouthful, choked on it, and set the tea down. Not only had it burned the roof of his mouth, it was noxiously foul. Pike chuckled at the look on Jim's face. He pulled open a desk drawer and threw Jim a packet of artificial sugar. He added it and sipped cautiously. The sugar only helped in that the tea was now sweet and foul, as opposed to straight up foul. He chugged the rest of the glass and set it down, wincing at the bitter aftertaste.

"Sit down, Jim. It's going to be a second." Jim obeyed, and slid his hands across the edges of the chair. It was sturdily built from cedar, a luxury in space. It stood solid beneath his fingers, the wood cool and reassuring.

Pike scrolled through documents on his PADD, compiling a gigantic message and periodically showing Jim what he was looking at.

"You'll need to read and fill out these here, sign and enforce this set of rules, and…" Pike trailed off, waiting for Kirk to stop fidgeting with the hem of his shiny new captain's uniform and pay attention. "One last thing. Starfleet is very gung-ho about regulation 2.7.831, especially subsection A."

Jim nodded. He didn't care and wasn't quite listening, because, _Jesus Christ,_ not only was Starfleet looking the other way at his sixty seven page (not to mention the amendments) criminal record _and_ erasing the charges for that bar fight he'd caused last week due to a little romp with a twenty-something blonde cadet, they were giving him the _Enterprise._ He could see it, in the floor-to-ceiling windows behind Pike's desk at the space station, all gleaming silver and polished curves. Gorgeous. Shuttles ferried workers between the station and _his _ship (Jim was already thinking in the possessive and hadn't even noticed the change), making last minute additions. The deciding officer had to have been smoking something pretty amazing when he cleared the paperwork to give James Tiberius Kirk, juvenile delinquent and infamous genius, command of that beauty.

Pike was…surprised, to say the least. He had assumed Jim would _not_ take this very well. He pressed send on the compiled list of forms. Jim's PADD beeped once, loudly.

"Jim, you do know what this entails, right?" he asked warily, leaning back in his chair and planting his feet on the ground. Jim looked up from his PADD, already ensconced in paperwork.

"Yessir. No smoking any illegal substances in any form while on active duty, no cigarettes, no cigars, no inhalants of any sort." Pike sighed. He didn't get paid enough for this.

"No, Jim. That's not it, that's a whole 'nother chapter. 2.7.831 states that fraternization of any sort between a commanding officer and his crew is forbidden. And I'm serious, Jim. We're talking huge ramifications for this. You could lose her for this kind of offense, you understand?" Jim had paled visibly, but he swallowed and nodded.

"I understand, sir."

* * *

Jim was losing his fucking mind.

They hadn't seen contact for three weeks. No contact with any life forms, nothing that moved, breathed, or had a sex drive. The planet that was supposed to be inhabited by a sentient species was home to little more than limestone cliffs and the Tellarite equivalent of a tumbleweed. How a Tellarite plant species had made it to the planet (nicknamed 'The Wasteland' by the bridge crew) was anybody's guess, but Jim didn't care, because he just couldn't take it. The next outpost was seventeen days away, and Jim hadn't had sex in twenty one days.

Twenty. One. Days. His sex drive was running so rampant that Jim was going to spontaneously combust if he didn't get some. He shifted his legs awkwardly, brushing his pant legs against the edge of the captain's chair.

It was like a huge pulsing neon sign was hanging in front of him reading 'NEED SEX NEED SEX NEED SEX' in three foot tall, acidic blue letters. And Jim couldn't sate it, because he couldn't sleep with the crew. Not if it meant sacrificing the _Enterprise_ to quell his raging hormones.

None of this was helped by the fact that his crew was _so damn attractive_.

They all knew it, too. They were using their collective good looks and feminine wiles (from Uhura, anyway) to ensure he lost his mind before they made it to the next stop.

Sulu struck up a loud conversation with Chekov, its subject of a questionable matter. Jim winced and crossed his legs, one ankle on the other knee. He could do this. Two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty two seconds until alpha shift was over. He _had_ to restrain himself.

If only he wasn't so damn distractible.

"I need to pull out my sword and get back to what I do best. I'm probably out of practice." Hikaru told Chekov loudly.

Jim whirled in his seat, turning to face Sulu.

"Oh, you'll pull out your _sword_, eh, Mr. Sulu? Don't think I don't see what you're doing!"

Sulu made a 'what the fuck' face to Chekov.

"Captain, I have found no time to practice fencing in the past three weeks. I've been busy with some recent developments regarding the Moraxian-" Jim wasn't going to put up with any of his crap.

"Don't lie to me, Mr. Sulu. I know what you meant." Jim gave him the evil eye for several seconds longer before sitting back in his seat and returning to the monotony of solving a dispute between two ensigns, who apparently needed a room transfer _right this damn second_. He lasted approximately 17.34 seconds before accidentally glancing at Chekov's adorably confused face.

"Damn it, Chekov!" The underaged genius looked up at him, and Jim pointed to the main windshield, a look of derangement on his face.

"Keep your eyes on the road!" he roared.

"Vhat? But Keptin, ve are flying in a dead zone, not to mention there is no-" Jim cut him off.

"Just do it!" Chekov turned around.

"I can do zat." He mumbled dejectedly. Jim heard that, unfortunately.

"FOCUS!" he roared again, before going back to his PADD and trying desperately not to look up.

The sight of science blue and black caught Jim's eye as he turned and completely filled his range of vision. He gripped the armrests tightly and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. He could not afford to jump Spock. He could not jump Spock. He could not jump Spock.

"Mr. Spock! Please step away from the station. There is no need to take readings at this time, because we're in the middle of space." Spock had bent over to check the monitors, and Jim could not get the image of Spock's perfect ass out of his mind. He needed the man to stand up. Now. "Like…the middle of freakin' nowhere. So there is no reason for you to be bending over to check the instruments. None at all." Spock stood and walked back to his station.

"Captain? I'm receiving a transmission from the next outpost, and…" Uhura stood and made her way towards Jim. A flash of red thigh-high skirt and lustrous brown skin caught his eye, destroying any concentration he may have had.

Jim narrowed his eyes, trying to see as little as possible.

"Uhura! No miniskirts on the bridge!" She sighed and flipped him off, then made her way to the turbolift to change into some pants.

The turbolift doors swished open, and Scotty brushed past her to swagger towards Jim.

Oh, life's a bitch.

Jim held up a hand to cover Scotty's lower half and cringed into his chair.

"Jim! I need your help! I cannae figure-" "Mr. Scott! No miniskirts on the bridge!" Scotty kept walking towards Jim in confusion, so Jim leapt over the back of the chair to keep something between himself and his top engineer. Scotty rounded the edge of the machinery and Jim bounded away, keeping as much space as possible between him and the thoroughly bewildered man. And again with the seeing the back of Chekov's endearing head of blonde curls.

"Damn it, Chekov!" he yelled, pointing to the great expanse of space. The kid didn't question it, despite the fact that he hadn't even turned around.

"Jus' what is going on here? It's jus' my kilt, laddy." Uhura motioned for him to stop, but Scotty had already put his foot in his mouth (so to speak).

And then Jim had a sudden comprehension of the situation. It just hit him, like the time Uhura had whacked him over the head with some rare piece of Andorian pottery. They knew, Jim realized. They knew _exactly_ what his problem was, and they weren't just teasing him, no. _They were all in on it together, _and it was some giant conspiracy to drive him as crazy as possible in his sexually-deprived state. And being a crew with an average IQ of 158, they sure as hell would be able to pull it off. Knowing them, it was going to get progressively more and more torturous, until he cracked under the strain.

"Just – just a…" Jim trailed off, words escaping his outraged brain. His mouth flapped open and closed for several seconds, and he gave up and returned to his seat to frantically compose a strongly worded memo on his PADD.

Several seconds later, a chorus of beeps across the bridge alerted the crew to a new message in their inboxes.

_From this day forward, the following attire is not allowed aboard the bridge of the Starship_ Enterprise_ or in the vicinity of her captain:_

_-Skirts of any length, particularly those of the thigh-baring variety._

_-Shirts with a neckline other than crew-cut, tank tops, midriff tops, strapless tops; turtlenecks are permissible._

_- Revealing clothing of any manner_

The list stretched on and on and on, and was followed by a footnote:

_Miniskirts are henceforth permanently banned from the Starship _Enterprise,_ and are no longer considered an acceptable part of the regulation Starfleet uniform._

Spock looks up at Jim, an eyebrow quizzically raised. Bad move. Jim was literally covering his eyes and trying to spin his chair away from Spock.

"Spock. You're staring. You're always staring. Why are you always _staring_?"

"Captain, that is a highly illogical response, considering that the chair is rendered immobile because it is bolted to the floor, and I am not 'always staring'. I am merely trying to understand your irrational response to Mr. Scott and Nyota's choice of attire, as well as your unreasonable behavior the past couple of days." Did the look Spock was sending him have to be so smoldering? Was he trying to seduce Jim into his bed and convey 'I want to go have extremely hot sex right this instant'? Because it sure looked like it. And then-

OH HOLY CRAP. He couldn't take it anymore. Fuck Russia and fuck stupid genii and fuck everything to do with the inability to say the letter v.

"I'm going to make this very simple for you, Ensign Jailbait. Either you stay ten feet away from me at all times, or you start wearing a paper bag over your head." What else were they going to throw at him? Was Spock going to come over to Jim to make bedroom eyes at him and give him a lapdance?

Unfortunately, Spock didn't, but sure enough, it all went downhill from there.

Uhura finally got worried enough to take drastic measures. She made her excuses and slid into the corridor to call Bones on the intercom. She looked around before holding down the button, praying that nobody who walked by would overhear the conversation she was about to have. Jim didn't care, but if a rather uppity member heard her say such derogatory things, well, she was screwed.

"Lieutenant Uhura to Sickbay."

"This is Dr. McCoy speaking. What can I do for ya, darlin'?" she sighed, and Bones winced in anticipation. This could not be good, if Nyota was taking time from her shift to call him.

"It's Jim. He's lost his mind. He won't let anyone near him, won't let Chekov look anywhere other than the windshield, insists that Spock stares at him too much, and sent out what may be the most ridiculous memo regarding the outlawing of miniskirts. Can't you sedate him?" she begged.

"Yes, ma'am. I'll be up shortly. Just head back to the bridge, stay calm, and whatever you do, don't aggravate him. Good luck."

"Thanks, Bones." Uhura added, before terminating the conversation.

Bones hustled up to the bridge in a record forty eight seconds, carrying a fully loaded hypospray and sporting a menacing look on his face.

"Hey Jim, could you come over here when you get a second?" Jim turned, got an eyeful of insanely attractive twenty-something doctor in full uniform, and when he coupled the image with the rough Southern cadence of his voice, he fled. He hadn't even noticed the hypospray.

"Goddamnit Jim!" he growled, turning a full 180 degrees, and sprinting towards his unruly captain.

Unfortunately for the sanity of the crew, Jim had run track and cross country throughout high school and his years at the Academy. He led Bones on a wild chase from the bridge to Engineering, past Security and plowing through Rec Room 3.

Bones, gasping for air (he hadn't run, well, _ever_), yelled "What in the hell are you doing? Get your ass over here!"

Jim looked over his shoulder and sped up, panicked beyond belief.

"How do I know that's what's really in the hypospray, Bones, how do I know for sure? Just stay away from me!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.

They sprinted through the Botany labs and shoved their way through Dorm Deck, when Jim suddenly skidded sideways and ran into his room. The door swished shut in Bones' face. When he punched in his CMO override code, the door smugly denied him entry, the bastard.

"Jim!" Bones said angrily, through the intercom. "What kind of game are you playing here? Don't make me get Spock and get in through the connecting bathroom!" Jim whimpered, because the mention of _Spock_ and _bathroom_ and _Bones_ in the same thought was a little too much for his overloaded brain to comprehend at the moment.

He could only take so much in one day, after all.

Bones punched that damn door and made his way to the nearest intercom, the forgotten hypospray clenched in his left fist.

"Annnnd we've lost him. Spock, you'll have to take the conn." Spock nodded, then realized McCoy couldn't see him.

"Affirmative, Doctor."

_Why am I posting this despite the other WIP awaiting my attention? But then again, it won't be too long. We're looking at two-three chapters tops, here. _

_Yeah, you've all heard this a milliion times before, but I'm going to say it again. Reviews = awesome, which = Spock = superultrasexiness. So if you review, you are by default superultrasexy also. _

_Gotta love the logic of that._


	2. Deux

**The Golden Rule**

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Jim practically bounced out of bed at eleven hundred hours the next morning, newly determined to not let his crew's sexiness (and his lack of sex) get to him.

He walked to the bridge, doing his best not to cringe when Spock got into the turbolift with him. That fifteen seconds of silence left Jim feeling completely ill at ease and rekindled the roaring fire in his stomach from the previous day, but he managed to make it out of there sans raging hard-on.

He had barely sat down in the captain's chair before the communications panel buzzed softly, glowing under the bright lights. Jim punched the button wearily.

"Captain?" It chirped in a Scottish accent. "It's Scotty. We've gotten into a little situation down here, and could really use some help." He started to briefly outline the problem, and then stopped. "You know what, you'll be able to figure it out for yourself, when you get down here. Hallway outside of the smelter," Scotty said.

"Gotcha. Be right there, Scotty." Jim ended the call.

"Pavel?" Jim said. The ensign whimpered. "You have the conn." Chekov looked visibly relieved, as if he'd just escaped the death penalty or a hypospray.

"Yessir, right away, Keptin."

Jim made his way through the hall and appraised the situation. The outer shell on a generator had had some infinitesimal structural deficiencies, and the intense heat output had cracked it straight down the middle. Scotty needed to take the piece to the smelter, but it was too big to fit through the hallway, hence Jim's involvement. Scotty needed explicit permission before he 'altered' any portion of the Enterprise. Jim helped Scotty and the security guards (whom Scotty had enlisted to help with the lifting) to shear off several inches from each end of the doorframe, enabling them to turn the shell diagonally and make it through the door.

Jim made an illicit detour down to Engineering afterwards because he knew it would be empty while Scotty was busy with the shell. Jim really didn't want to spend more time on the bridge than he had too, and if he was going to stall, goddamnit, he at least wanted to look like he wasn't going to go jack off on shift. Jim had barely rounded the corner when something short and skinny crashed into him, knocking him against the wall.

Jim had barely had a chance to look down and ascertain his assailant's identity before the thing backed away hastily; it was just Chekov, eyes wide in fear.

"I am so sorry about zat, Keptin, I am wery sorry-"

"Chekov, it's fine. I'm sorry that I just semi-molested you, and if you need counseling we'll deal with that later. Just tell me someone has the conn, and I won't ask why you're not on the bridge." Jim requested, forcibly clasping his hands behind his back to stop them from shaking. Chekov ran a hand through his hair and thought about it.

"Lieutenant Uhura. It's all good," he said, straightening his uniform and laughing. "I haven't slept in so long zat I sink my sex driwe's practically nonexistent, so zat probably doesn't constitute rape on my part."

Bingo. That should work quite nicely.

Oh man, he was a walking travesty of a Starfleet captain on days like today. And he was fully aware of it, but it was oh so hard to maintain any sort of perspective on a situation when he hadn't had sex for twenty-fucking-two days.

Chekov vanished back into the lift, presumably to head back up to the bridge and make puppy eyes at Sulu, and Jim shook his head with a quiet laugh, knowing that it had all just been another attempt, and it had failed, because he was a Big Damn Hero and he could take whatever his crew threw at him.

Well, he'd withstood their efforts so far, but he'd probably need to discover the secret to stilling his insatiable urge for copulation.

"Jim."

He turned and froze at the sight of Bones propped against the bulkhead behind him, dark brow cocked and arms folded across his chest.

"What in the name of all that is holy is wrong with you?" he said, grabbing Jim's arm and dragging him towards sickbay.

"I'm fine, Bones. Really." he said unconvincingly, avoiding eye contact and hoping desperately that Bones hadn't noticed his accelerated heartbeat or the sweat that had sprung to his face. He shrugged off the doctor's strong hand and walked quickly in the opposite direction. He made it nearly ten feet before a better idea came to mind.

"Actually, you know what?" Jim said, spinning around and walking backwards to maintain a suitable distance between him and Bones. "You're right, totally right. I think I need a couple of days off. I'm fine, Bones, just tired. I'm not dying, and you sure as hell don't need to peg me with another hypo."

He spun and resumed his frantic walking, leaving Bones standing in the middle of the corridor, puzzled beyond belief and vastly irritated.

**

* * *

**

Now that Jim thought about it, he should probably develop better coping mechanisms.

He pulled up a chair, kicked his shoes off, and put his feet on the desk. It was going to be a long couple of days, but at least he could make them productive.

He ignored the multiple angry messages from his irate CMO and shot off a quick reply that said he was not to be disturbed on pain of death. Jim opened the first file on the list - compiling the requisitions list for when they finally made it to salvation.

Okay, once they made it to the Frissious outpost, they'd need to refill on supplies. Jim sifted through the various request forms, which ranged from necessities like shampoo to downright ridiculous things such as a tennis court and weekly massage therapy.

He sorted the files lazily, deciding what items were absolute necessities and going along with whatever whims he had. Better replicator AI? Sure thing, because it had no idea what constituted good brownies. More phasers? Guaranteed. And then Jim started thinking about that last firefight on Riova, and then Spock's hands on that phaser as he took down fighter after fighter with calm accuracy. And from there he started thinking about Spock's nimble hands, twisting in his hair and pulling him closer, ripping his clothes apart-wait, what?

Stop right there.

Jim shook his head, as if the motion would remove the disturbing notions he was entertaining.

Okay, back on track. Scotty had a shortage on a certain wrench gage, and there was money to spare in the Engineering budget, so Jim could definitely approve that, and Bones was running dangerously low on hyposprays (no surprise there, considering the vicious glee with which he administered them), but he'd have to compensate for the added cost by replacing the uniforms in two years, instead of one. And then Jim's brain decided to distract him with some…interesting mental images.

He rubbed his eyes furiously. No no no no _no_. Not the time or place for Spock…naked.

But his rebellious mind wasn't going for that. Spock's muscular chest, what it would feel like to run his hands along the planes of his upper body, to the tangle of his toned legs against Jim's and the feel of…

NO, GODDAMNIT. JUST NO.

**

* * *

**

Jim always believed he could worm his way out of a situation, and this was no exception. He had to make it for sixteen more days, and then he was home free. The next outpost, a minor Starfleet port on a highly immoral planet, was one that Jim had visited on a recent shore leave. Frissious, the planet renowned for its gambling, strip clubs, bars, and the most recent political rights movement that not only condoned prostitution, it actively advocated it. Frissious, thy name was salvation.

But until then, Jim needed some way to keep it together, and he had somehow come to the unfounded conclusion that if he didn't sleep, he would only be able to concentrate on one thing at a time: namely, not his sex drive.

So he hadn't slept in two days, hadn't had a single energy drink or cup of replicated coffee, or even that nasty Vulcan tea Spock would sometimes force upon him whenever the two were up for several days at a time during a particularly busy stretch. Jim didn't like that tea because it reminded him of his first days as a Captain, when he would drink it for the zero calorie content and high caffeine levels.

He shuffled onto the bridge, dark circles evident under his bleary eyes.

"Lieutenant, you're-you…"Jim yawned hugely. "Lieutenant, you are relieved." The woman nodded, laughing at his exhausted face. She willingly surrendered the captain's chair and made her way to the turbolift.

He hadn't even had the urge to ogle her short skirt, or more accurately, the legs displayed by said short skirt. It didn't cross his mind that he'd disallowed miniskirts the previous day by deluded memo, but then again, it hadn't even occurred to him that the tube Chekov had been holding when he had slammed into Jim the previous day was not, as he'd been hurriedly informed, foot cream, but in all actuality lube.

But Jim was too busy being groggily impressed with his ingenuity to think about such revelations as Pavel and Hikaru sleeping together, or what may or not have been a direct sign of insubordination from a commanding officer.

And this train of thought was relatively distracting, because quite frankly, he was pretty damn amazing. Walking past Christine and that pretty redheaded nurse in the hall earlier had incited a reaction of little more than a cocky grin and a mocking salute. When Uhura strutted onto the bridge, miniskirt fluttering (apparently his memo was blatantly disregarded), he didn't freak out. When Chekov and Sulu arrived late, hand in hand, with flushed faces and devious grins? Not a problem. Even Spock, crisp as usual, provoked little more than a funny twinge in his stomach and a nod.

He had somehow completely desensitized himself, which was a humongous accomplishment considering that it was Jim Kirk, notoriously horny and equipped with an infamously insatiable sex drive.

A pair of slim legs clad in black pants entered his range of vision, and Jim raised his head from where it rested on his hand.

"Captain?" Spock inquired.

"What's up, Spock?"

"As we have seen no disorder or situations which require our intervention since eleven hundred hours this morning, I am inquiring as to whether you will assess and amend my research on the mathematical structures of temporal astrophysics." Jim didn't bother responding; he merely grabbed the proffered PADD and started reading.

He paused when phrases like the _Romulan interference_ and _red matter _whizzed past, and seeing _the Narada _confirmed the guess he'd made less than five seconds ago.

"Spock, you can't submit this. Isn't most of this information classified?" Spock swiveled and gave him a look that was synonymous with 'you must be high, because that is an extraordinarily illogical, not to mention obvious, train of thought'.

"It will be classified, Jim; the main purpose is to explain the ramifications of the red matter incident aboard the _Narada_ with the optimistic view that some insight will be gained from my writings. I'm merely requesting that you verify my calculations, Captain."

"Uh-huh." Jim said absently, enveloped in the terror of Spock's research, which was horrifically long and complicated. He vaguely grasped that it wasn't just pages upon pages of research, but a proposal to undertake extensive experimentation towards the topic.

_Great_, he whined silently, _it's important._

When Jim had been in the Academy, he'd been able to sleep for four hours, get up, take the finals he hadn't studied for, and still pass with flying colors at the top of his class. He'd gotten too used to the slightly erratic schedule aboard the Enterprise: yes, he still was woken up in the middle of the night with this emergency or that, but he didn't have to read complex formulae and solve for motherfucking inverse of f(x) while simultaneously looking at quantum psychics. He could still snap his mind from sleep to holy-shit-Klingon-attack in under 4.7 seconds, but higher math? On any other day, sure, but not at the moment, thank you very much.

Spock returned to his station, and Jim made a valiant attempt at reading the paper in front of him. He lasted an impressive twenty-four minutes.

The numbers slipped and swam on the page in front of him; he yawned again, further blurring the figures.

"Captain?" Spock asked, seemingly unruffled but probably wondering what the hell was going on in Jim's crazy mind. He looked up and realized that Spock was standing in front of him, obviously waiting to be noticed.

Jim inwardly sighed in relief, because at least he could look at Spock without feeling an insatiable urge to start a full-on Vulcan orgy in the middle of the bridge, even if he couldn't help the man with his goddamned thesis.

Actually, now that he thought about it, he pretty much always wanted to go all Vulcan orgy with Spock, but at least the exhaustion had taken the edge off of the sharp attractiveness of everyone surrounding him. To the point where he could maintain some semblance of functioning, anyway.

"Yeah, sorry about this Spock, but…" Jim trailed off awkwardly, running one hand through his hair and mussing it thoroughly. Spock stared at a lock of hair that was insistently sticking out from Jim's head.

"I just can't do this right now." Jim said, handing back the PADD. "Some other time, okay?"

Spock nodded; and from there, the rest of alpha shift blurred into a haze of sitting, and signing things that he only vaguely remembered reading, and Jim wondering why he couldn't just go find a nice, soft, inviting bed – because bed's didn't make him think, didn't torment him and talk incessantly and yell something about 'non-lethal phaser tag in rec room three!".

Beds.

They were so nice.

But Jim just got up tiredly and saluted his replacement with a grateful smile when he showed up, four long hours later, then trudged off to mess. Food and then sleep. He could do that.

After standing sleepily in line for a tray of replicated mac-and-cheese (when in doubt, Jim went for comfort food), Jim sat next to Bones at their usual table. He took one look down the full table and his eyes narrowed. Fuck this. He was _tired._

Not caring if anyone saw, Jim slid his legs up and curled into the chair, closing his heavy eyes with a soft sigh of relief.

He fell asleep to the soft murmurs of his crew and the subtle vibrations of the _Enterprise_ as she slipped into warp.

**

* * *

**

He was woken in a much less gentle manner – a stinging hypospray to the neck, a sudden jolt of adrenaline pumping through his system and effectively scaring the shit out of him.

He looked up, eyes wide and pulse jumping erratically, to see Bones looming over him, entirely too close for comfort.

Jim swung his fist wildly, a reaction he'd recently developed to getting stabbed in the neck and developed even more recently to seeing striking people within a close proximity.

"God_damnit_ Jim! I never signed up for this!" Bones growled, sprawled on the floor. He had been forced to kneel on the table to properly administer the hypospray, and had been completely bowled over by the unexpected hit.

Jim whipped his head from side to side, disoriented. The distractible half of the bridge crew was standing near his chair (because they knew they'd get away with it; the Enterprise was flying through a dead patch, completely devoid of anything and everything), expressions of shock, dismay, and (to Jim's consternation) mirth mirrored across their faces. The others (the reasonable half of the crew) had turned in their seats to watch the spectacle that was their captain.

And then Jim was full-on cowering behind his chair yelling unintelligible things intermixed with profanity, and Bones just had to have shot him with some sort of adrenaline-filled hypospray, because he'd regained his previous insight into just how _damn sexy_ his crew was. Not to mention noticing that his delectably tempting crew members were all standing within five feet of him.

Fuck. Looked like that plan was shot.

"Why are you all so close? I don't know what you're trying to pull on me, but just get away! Get away!" Jim yelled manically, wishing, no, _praying,_ that Spock would pull his shirt back down, because it had ridden up slightly and was exposing his stomach and was therefore accelerating the deterioration of Jim's sanity, what little of it that was left.

And the situation had been made about fifty times worse than it was previously, because Jim had gotten adjusted to the lack of hard-ons.

Jim let out a howl of pure desperation as they crept even closer, Bones looming threateningly over the chair and Spock looking all dark and menacingly seductive.

Not only had he regained sensitivity, Jim's vocabulary had apparently been filled with terms straight out of those cheesy romance novels that Uhura requisitioned every time they went on a supply run, even if she wouldn't admit it to anyone.

If (not when) they finally broke Jim and turned him into a babbling puddle of testosterone, at least he'd sound like a sappy, love struck girl.

What a great way to go.

* * *

**A/N: Can I just say - the love I got for the first chapter? Amazing. Thank you guys! **

**Also, cable69? Awesome beta. Like, completely and totally awesome.**

**And now, as always, reviews. ****Do I even need to say it?**

**No, I don't. You know EXACTLY what to do. SO GO DO IT!**


	3. Trois

I just realized that this entire story could be summed up with one sentence: Jim just has all of these _feelings. _Haha.

Sorry about the lateness! Life's a very busy thing. But this is here, so it's all forgotten...hopefully?

* * *

**The Golden Rule**

* * *

"James?" Spock leant over Jim, his visage filling Jim's vision.

"He-hey Spock," Jim started nervously. "Well…"

Spock just looked at him with quiet incredulity.

Jim's pulse pounded in his temple as he looked up at Spock, his thoughts racing. His brain flashed a brazen warning signal:

DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT DIVERT

Which didn't help. At all.

"Do you want to play chess tonight?" Jim asked in a sudden rush. Probably wasn't what Spock had been expecting Jim to say, hopefully he'd back up.

Spock looked taken aback. Yep, definitely not expecting that.

"Yes, I would," he answered, mercifully pulling his head away from Jim's.

"Well, okay then, I'm just gonna go get things set up, okay? Actually, I'm just going to take a nap, because I'm really tired, and I'll see you later Spock," Jim rambled, as he scrambled to his feet and walked hastily out of the room.

The bewildered and downright perplexed group commiserated over what remained of their dinner after Jim.

"What is wrong with him?" Uhura raged, stabbing her food with vengeance. "The man's been like a frickin' deranged animal the past couple of days."

"I think zat ze Keptin's mind is being controlled by those tumbleweeds from the Wasteland. Zey probably drugged him to keep his mind pliable, and zat's why he was so tired today, and also why he's been acting so oddly." Chekov theorized vociferously.

This proposal was quickly denounced to be untrue by a general consensus of the crew, excluding Hikaru, who politely informed Pavel that the lab results regarding the mental faculties of Maraxian tumbleweeds hadn't come back yet, and therefore it could go either way. (In Chekov's defense, the tumbleweeds had been disturbingly sentient (not to mention hostile)). Hikaru was pretty sure, however, that if the tumbleweeds were capable of masterminding the takeover of Jim's mind, let alone _remaining_ in Jim's mind for any period of time, they would have killed everyone on board by now.

Sulu then hurriedly distracted Chekov by asking if he liked twentieth century bands, which lead to a debate of epic proportions about whether Modest Mouse, Bono, or the Backstreet Boys would rule Earth in the event of an apocalypse.

The first few months after the _Enterprise_ had started her journey, the mess had been stiff and starchy, but Jim had worked quickly to abolish such thinking. He'd made it very clear to the crew that the mess was just that – messy. No, they couldn't call him Captain off-duty, it was _Jim._ Sure, he very clearly understood the need for protocol and order, that sort of fuss, but if they didn't get meals off, the whole ship would go to hell in a hand basket within a year. So dinner in particular was always loud and rambunctious.

Gaila sat down next to Uhura, providing a welcome diversion and saving them from the horrors of Pavel and Hikaru.

"So, what's the deal? You guys look like you just saw Scotty and Keenser getting it on."

"Where have you _been_? Jim's gone motherfucking insane," Uhura informed her.

"Oh! I've haven't been anywhere other than Engineering and Dorm Deck – I've managed to synthesize a new metal for reinforcement so that we won't have any more exploding generators." Gaila's eyes lit up, her smile enthused.

She was then assailed with varying accounts of Jim's eccentric behavior, all with the not-so-subtle undertone of 'what in the hell is going on?'.

Enlightenment struck Gaila pretty quickly. She narrowed her eyes, thinking furiously, and then it hit her.

"Jim's been sleeping around whenever we get to a new planet, right?" Everyone nodded, her point unclear. "Well, The Wasteland was completely deserted, so Jim hasn't had sex in nearly what, three, four weeks? With a sex drive like that, he's probably ready to burst. He can't keep it in his pants for _that_ long, and quite frankly, I'm surprised he's made it this far." Gaila started in on her replicated nachos, then paused, fork mid-air, as another thought hit her.

"So the real issue here is simple: who's going to sleep with Jim? I, for one, nominate Bones." The doctor's spit take was downright amazing, splattering the table with soda.

"What-you-d-do-as," Bones spluttered, trying to form a coherent sentence and finally coming up with "NO."

He sighed and snatched a fistful of napkins, mopping up the majority of the spill before noticing that everyone at the table was still staring at him expectantly.

"I am definitely not sleeping with Jim. No, I won't 'take one for the team'_,_" he said venomously, glaring at nobody in particular, "someone else can take care of that."

The rest of the table quickly offered various excuses, shuffling and avoiding eye contact. They quieted down after several minutes, out of alternative suggestions.

"Looks like that train of thought has run dry, but I've got a lower octane plan." Nyota commented, smiling wryly. "How about we send Spock in, just to check on him? He has the only way into Jim's quarters, after all."

"He should be awake by now," Christine added, having occupied her previous seat. "I tagged him with a pretty mild dosage."

"Spock," Uhura leaned across Hikaru, "just get in there, make sure Jim isn't clawing his eyes out or something, and get out. No big deal." She saw the questioning look in his eyes and clarified.

"No sex, Spock. Get in and make sure Jim's alive, and make sure _you_ come back in one piece." she added teasingly. "Think you can handle it?"

"I was fully aware that checking in on the Captain would not require sexual favors of any manner, Lieutenant." Spock announced, his words practically dripping venom, before rising from his seat disdainfully to go check on his Captain.

As soon as Spock walked out, Uhura snickered vindictively.

"_Captain_, huh?" She smirked. "I've gotta say, I'll be very impressed if he holds out."

**

* * *

**

Spock entered his override code, pressing lightly against the metallic keypad. The doors parted softly, unveiling Jim's deeply shadowed room. McCoy had said the hypospray he'd pegged Jim with was mild; assuming he hadn't had a reaction, Jim should have resumed consciousness s. Then again, where Jim was concerned, nothing was improbable, Spock noted with some amusement.

"Captain?" he asked, scanning the dimly lit room. "Captain? James?" A lump in the bed rolled over; Jim stretched and yawned. He reached a hand towards Spock, who was standing stiffly next to the door, and retracted it the second he was aware of what he'd done.

"Whassa matter 'pock?" he mumbled incoherently, still half asleep. Jim flipped the covers off of himself and shakily sat on the edge of the bed. His hair was mussed and his uniform pants wrinkled, his eyes crystal clear as he sat, shirtless, with his hands clasped between his knees and asked Spock "So, what's up?"

"The crew became anxious regarding your current state, due to the...overzealous manner in which you have conducted yourself recently. Being the only crew member with access to your quarters, I was deemed the appropriate person to assess your condition."

Ouch. Spock had only come in here because he was the only one who _could_ come in here.

Jim cringed and tried to salvage the situation, which had suddenly gotten very, very awkward.

"Lights to thirty seven percent." Jim requested, hunting for his shirt on the floor and surreptitiously looking at his alluring First Officer, who was standing with his back straight as an iron rod and leaning against the door frame, somehow managing to look official and yet completely tempting. And wow, big mistake. It sent all the blood rushing to his head, not to mention _other_ places. He shouldn't be allowed to stand in Jim's room, looking all tall and lithe and god-like. It wasn't fair, Jim decided, snatching his shirt from the floor and standing to slide it over his head.

And really, goddamn, how much more was he going to have to endure? There was a tear in Spock's pants, infinitesimal, really, but it was still undeniably there. Just a flash of skin, which tantalized and brought exceedingly profane images to mind.

Jim wanted oh so badly to rip those pants off of Spock and fuck him into oblivion.

With that thought, Jim caved, letting a heady rush of adrenaline and lust cloud his thoughts.

"Hey Spock? Why don't you just sit here?" Jim asked, pointing to the desk chair by his bed. "And can I ask you something?" Something along the lines of _I haven't gotten laid in almost a month and I'm outrageously turned on, so if could you just get a little closer, then can we please have some ridiculously hot sex? You know, if you're okay with that. Or you could come over here anyway, and we can roll around on this comfy bed and make out like teenagers. That too._

That seemed like an excellent plan for about twelve seconds, until sanity pierced the hazy cloud of lust that had covered Jim's mental facilities and he realized what a complete idiot he was being. He hadn't said anything _too_ overt, so if he just kept calm, it'd be fine.

But his heart was racing, his pulse pounding in his throat and the slightest flush creeping up his cheeks. God, he felt like a gawky teenager, and it was sure awkward.

Oh shit no no _no. _Spock was getting closer, and closer, and closer, which was helping absolutely _nothing, _but in his brain's exhausted state Jim's thoughts were little more than mush.

Not particularly useful.

Spock sat, the chair a mere three feet away. Close enough that Jim could reach out and touch him, grab Spock's arm and pull him closer and abolish any reason why they _shouldn't_-

Unable to think of anything convincing, Jim blurted, "Not too close if you'd please, Spock. It's not you, it's just-" he thought about it for a second, "nevermind, maybe it is you." Spock moved obligingly, gingerly resting an arm on his knee.

Okay, that had worked (sort of). It had made absolutely no sense, but it had worked.

Jim took stock of the situation. If he could just keep breathing deeply and didn't keep his little issues at the forefront of his mind, he could – should – be able do this.

"Captain," Spock began, all quiet dignity and understanding.

"Spock, if you don't call me Jim when we're off duty, for heaven's sake, I'm going to punch you in the face." Jim announced rather loudly.

Cue raising of the left eyebrow.

"Hey, how about that game of chess?" Jim interrupted in a rush.

Whoa, chess with a hard-on? Possibly one of the awkwardest things he would do in his lifetime. And being Jim, he'd done some very interesting things over the course of 2.1 decades.

"I would be amicable towards this."

"You think that we could rustle up a set somehow? You know what, I think there's a replicator down the hall that Scotty modified to make recyclable-"

"I am actually in possession of a full chess set, Jim. It is located in my quarters, if you would agree to pursue me there and play in such space." Spock said, and Jim took a deep breath, because, the two of them? In Spock's quarters, and very, _very_ alone? This had very few ways in which it could end well. But Jim didn't want to refuse, because he'd always been interested in what his First did in his spare time, and also because it was Spock, and pretty much everything to do with Spock fascinated Jim.

"Awesome." he said, flashing a full-wattage grin at Spock and standing up. "Lead the way."

Spock bent over to pull the chess set from his bag, and Jim winced, because Spock was trying to stick his ass in Jim's range of vision whenever possible. At least, it looked like he was. Maybe he was just trying to look as drop-dead sexy as possible, and as soon as he lured Jim into his quarters he was going to run over and jump him…oh, Jim wished he would.

But the fucking tease was probably going to keep it nice and subtle, like he was now, walking over to the table by the bay window and switching his hips back and forth slightly, just enough to make Jim insane, but not nearly enough to be accused of any serious hip-swiveling.

He set the board and pieces on the table and lightly arranged them, his nimble hands arranging the pieces quickly.

"I assume you'd like to play by Terran rules, Jim?" Spock inquired, startling Jim out of his daze.

"Sure."

"Wait a sec, how's it played on Vulcan?" Jim asked. Spock slid his first piece forward, effectively distracting Jim.

"The King's Gambit, huh? Interesting choice." Jim said thoughtfully; he considered the board for several seconds before ignoring the waiting pawn and upping his knight a level.

At that point in time, several neurons composed of sheer insanity all conspired in the inner coils of Jim's brain and fired at the same time, giving him another scheme to try.

Desensitization. Maybe, just maybe, this could work.

The more time he spent with Spock, Jim reasoned, it would make the shift hours that much less agonizing. He'd get adjusted to it, and then it'd all be fine and dandy. Sure, it felt a little bubblegum and shoestring to have any sort of permanence, but it would work nicely until Frissious, the name of which Jim had taken to repeating like one repeats their prime deity's name in times of great need. It was pretty bizarre.

Then again, the situation was fucked up beyond all recognition.

And therefore, anything goes.

**A/N: Reviews make my life.**

**Just so you know.**


	4. Quatre

Everyone, please feel free to cyber-punch me in the face. I started college just this month, and I've been sleeping around five hours a night, and my writing got pushed to the back burner. But now I have the worst case of strep I've ever had, so I get to drink gallons of tea and work at my laptop! Seriously, it's ridiculous, but I'm so _excited _about this.

But finally, finally, I'm getting to make this a little more Spock-centric. Or a lot more. Hellz to the yeah.

* * *

**The Golden Rule**

**_by: FifteenthVector_**

**

* * *

**

Chess with Spock had gone surprisingly well. It had been so fucking hard that Jim had found himself spending more time figuring out how the hell Spock was so_ smart_ then he did staring slack jawed at Spock's beautiful face. His quarters had been warm and quiet and serene, and in that uncluttered space Jim felt as if he had temporarily regained sense.

And he was left clutching at that sense of peace the next morning, when he was writhing silently in his chair and contemplating moaning a bit too for good measure, because this was fucking awful and they should have to suffer too for putting him through it, damn attractive people.

"Sulu? _Sulu?_"

"Captain?" he asked, looking over the back of his chair at Jim, who was the very picture of nonchalance -feigned though it may have been- as he lounged in his chair.

"Can this thing go any faster?"

Sulu, mystified, replied, "No, Captain, we are maintaining the fastest possible speed under regulation."

"Well, okay then," Jim said, looking deflated. "How far exactly are we from-"

"16 days, sir," Sulu answered smoothly, _again_, turning around to fiddle with a useless dial and pretend he was busy. Jim's behavior was officially freaking him the fuck out.

When he was sure Jim's attention had been diverted, he elbowed Chekov in the side.

"At least he _looks _normal," he whispered, then straightened hurriedly as Uhura strode past.

After several seconds, he leaned over again, and spoke softly, conspiratorially.

"I wonder why he's better? He was getting pretty bad there, earlier."

Chekov nodded, pondered it for a moment. "Well, he has certainly improwed from cowering behind zhings. Zat was odd." He risked a furtive glance at Jim, who was distracted, listening to something Spock was saying. "He may hawe been drugged; that or fixed _his problem_." Chekov said the last two words so quietly that Sulu had to strain to catch them; it was as if he feared Jim overhearing and having to face his wrath by staring, unmoving, at the windshield for hours on end. Again.

Gaila cornered Jim when he walked out of the turbolift, vulnerable in his unsuspecting mindset. She herded him into an empty hall and proceeded to encroach the limits of his personal space bubble (which had been expanding on a day-to-day basis). Threats didn't help.

"Gaila, so help me, if you get any closer, you're on gamma for a month!"

"No I'm not," Gaila disagreed, and continued, because apparently no one who worked for him listened to him, "look, I'm just here to tell you this, okay?"

"Tell me what?" Jim asked, taking a futile step backwards and slamming his heel into the wall.

"Spock isn't as oblivious to you as you think," she informed him sternly, before brushing past his stuttered "But-" with a wicked smile and a newfound spring in her step.

Great. He sunk down against the wall. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Spock wasn't as oblivious as he thought. _Oblivious?_ Spock had been practically undressing Jim with his eyes on the bridge since the beginning of the Episode (yeah, that's a capital 'E'), but he was somehow unaware of Jim? Guh. Things just weren't making sense anymore.

He took several long, deep breaths. Okay, he was at the end of his rope. That much was clear. Acquiescing would probably be his best bet. He could just lie and-

Even better. They were in the middle of motherfucking space, right? It's not like he had to tell Starfleet he'd gotten some. Not telling. Perfectly acceptable.

_So_, all he had to do was find someone on his ship who would be willing to sleep with him (probably 85 percent, give or take a standard deviation), who wouldn't run away from him in his admittedly crazed state (maybe 50 percent?), and, most importantly, who would have absolutely no qualms about breaking a noted Starfleet regulation to satiate a completely non-life threatening issue (…3 percent…no, shit, that was a negative…1.2 percent?).

Obviously he was going to have to take a different approach to finding someone.

In what could be deemed either crazed fit of categorical orderliness or a sane, logical fit of categorical orderliness, Jim started compiling lists. Upon lists. Upon lists.

He made sure to scurry to the bathroom first and shut himself into a heavily graffitied stall (despite all of the technological cleaning advances in the universe, the Sharpie still ruled unmatched).

His first attempt was to simply list everyone who _would _sleep with him. After maybe two minutes of glaring at his PADD, Jim decided that maybe it would be easier to list everyone who _wouldn't_ sleep with him, compare that list with the ship's roster, and find those who were left over.

And it'd probably be easier if he had a separate list for each gender.

And species.

And sector of the ship.

The first:

_PEOPLE WHO ARE MARRIED:_

_-Almost all of Engineering, because they all spend a _lot_ of time together_

_-Janice Rand and Christine Chapel (which practically triples the reasons against me)_

_-The new guy from Communications_

_-All of the diplomats have married representatives from their respective planets_

_-The ruling creature with eight tentacles from Narilix that we are taking to Frissious has like, twenty wives/husbands/bondmates from at least four genders. Which makes perfect sense._

_-Even the new fucking plants Spock's growing pollinate each other_

_MEN WHO ARE STRAIGHT:_

_-Bones_

_-Keenser_

_-Captain Pike (shit, he's not even on the ship – erase last entry - fuck, where's the goddamn erase? There it is) _

_LIST ERASED _

"Goddamnit!"

_JUST ABOUT EVERYBODY ON THE FUCKING SHIP, APPARENTLY._

_PEOPLE FROM SICKBAY:_

_-Everyone: apparently _someone _has spread some nasty rumors regarding an STI marker and me. Bones is such a fucking cockblocker._

_PEOPLE ON THE BRIDGE WHO WOULD NEVER, EVER SLEEP WITH ME:_

_-Uhura, because she'd probably kill me and I'd like to keep my balls where they are. And she may or may not be sleeping with Bones._

_-Sulu, because he's fucking Chekov and way too loyal._

_-Chekov, because he's fucking Sulu, and I'm sure he wouldn't cheat. Ever. But he'd like it. A lot._

_-Scotty, because we'd probably have to be completely hammered and then I wouldn't remember any of it, and despite appearances, I have some morals._

_-Bones, because he's straighter than the day is long and if I tried it he'd think I'd ingested another aphrodisiac. And that's only happened once. Also, I'm pretty sure he's fucking Uhura. Again, I'd like to keep my balls where they are._

_-Spock, because…_

_Well, actually. Maybe he would. _

_Maybe._

* * *

Still in the midst of one of his few and infrequent lucid moments, Jim hovered on the threshold of Sickbay, oscillating, unsure of what the hell he was thinking. Unsure if it, this uncertainty, was caused by the paranoia clawing at the remaining shreds of his sanity or if Bones was legitimately conspiring with the entire crew.

No, he was going to get laid. And hadn't he just realized that the majority of the crew had no legitimate reason to be after him?

Bones would help him – not by sleeping with him, but Bones _would_ know just what to do. And it had been pretty stupid to avoid Bones, because really, why on Earth would Bones be trying to get him when Bones didn't want to get into anyone's pants beside Uhura's (despite his frequent insistence that that was not the case)?

So he strutted into Sickbay and plopped into one of the chairs in Bones' office, waited until Bones was done setting someone's broken wrist and flinched visibly whenever someone walked by him.

Bones was surprised to see Jim sitting in his office; Jim's MO the past week had been avoidance of superfluous contact with people, and therefore he hadn't been dropping into Sickbay unannounced.

Bones was sort of...clawing at his own face when Jim finally finished explaining his situation, and he said, half-muffled by the tearing actions at his eyes, "No! What are you telling me? God, _why_ are you telling me this?"

Jim pushed himself up to a seated position of despair and said, "Because you're the only person I trust when it comes to my sex life, Bones."

Bones sighed heavily. "So you want to get laid…and you're coming to _me_ for advice? Like anyone knows the damn green-blooded bastard better than you? Or Uhura?"

The protests rolling off of Jim's tongue indicated sheer denial.

"Bones – I-I'm not- not what I…yeah, kind of," Jim finished lamely.

"I'll rephrase, just once. You want _me _to help you fu-" Bones stopped, like even he couldn't finish the sentence without committing ritual suicide.

"Yes," said Jim, and Bones gave him a look that could probably melt the skin off of Jim's face.

"Well, then," he said, and he was walked to the door and slammed it shut. He pivoted and said, "And if you ever tell _anyone_ that I helped you with this I will fucking kill you."

Jim winced at the glare the doctor pinned him under, one promising a great number of excruciatingly uncomfortable physicals in the near future.

* * *

Now that Jim had a legitimate goal in mind, he was able to tune out most of the distractions around him (meaning that most people had ceased to scare him). Unfortunately, the pain had narrowed in on Spock, so where others had ceased to be as problematic, Spock's magnetism had increased _exponentially_.

Spock apparently had a fucking list of shit he had to do to drive Jim up a wall and down the other side of it, judging by the way he stood in front of Jim, lips slightly parted to speak and a PADD clutched loosely in his left hand.

"Permission to adjourn to my quarters?" he asked crisply, the PADD balanced on the palm of his outstretched hand.

Jim, who was mostly occupied with not choking on his own tongue, could only stare incredulously and stutter.

"Acknugh," he managed, then he shook his head and made another attempt at coherency. "Yes, sure, Mr. Spock. Actually, I have a matter that needs addressing. I'll follow you," and he looked around before adding, "Jailbait, you've got the conn."

They strolled into the lift like they hadn't a care in the world and like Jim wasn't mumbling serenity prayers under his breath.

"Hey Spock," he asked, after several seconds of awkward eye contact and the subsequent avoidance of said eye contact, "how's the Teralsious war panning out? I haven't checked the news feed in a couple of days because I've been…well, I've…" Jim felt himself blush so hard he nearly passed out, because his usual suave mannerisms where deserting him so that he could make a complete idiot of himself.

Spock saved him any further embarrassment by acknowledging Jim's erratic behaviors and apparent insanity with a nod, then outlined the current impasse that had been reached as they exited the lift and strode down the hall.

Jim was really glad there was no way to blush to death.

"As for the manner you required my assistance towards?" Spock asked when they reached his quarters.

"Oh, it can wait," Jim said airily, waving his hand dismissively. Spock turned towards his door and lightly tapped his fingers on the keypad. His door slid open with a _whoosh_ and a blast of warm air from the inviting, dimly lit depths.

And because he was going to hell anyway, Jim put a hand on Spock's bicep and spun him around. God, Spock was warm, and Jim could feel muscles shifting under his hand as Spock unconsciously flexed his hand.

"Hey, wait a sec," Spock stared blankly at him as he continued, "Do you really need to go…" Jim trailed off uncertainly, his plea falling on flat, unconcerned eyes. Spock shrugged his shoulder casually, as if he wasn't blatantly getting Jim to stop touching him.

Spock favored him with a narrow-eyed look, and he said, "At another time, perhaps," slowly, before he hovered into his room, shutting the door behind him, and Jim knew he was being eight kinds of batshit but he just stared at it, the forbidding, sleek surface of it, and swallowed hard over and over again.

* * *

**I want to thank everyone who's **review**ed so far, and especially you anons! You guys have made my day so many times it's not even funny.**

**The preceding message contained no subliminal messages.**

**In other news, I will be getting the next chapter out in a timely manner, I SWEAR.**

**Just stick with me here, okay? I am drafting the last pieces, and I promise you, it's going to be amazing. And the crack will be back. Because I feel like I'm slacking off in that department.**

**I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT THIS IT'S NOT EVEN FUNNY.**


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